Dress Blues
by Lawson227
Summary: Post "Mr. Yin Presents..." Carlton held Juliet as she fell apart, but who took care of him? Karen/Carlton. Fictional. Imagine that. On a site called FanFICTION-dot-net. If you do not like this pairing, I politely invite you to skip the story. If you're open-minded, come on in. Sorry for the snarkery, but there's been some unnecessarily ugly backlash of late.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Karen/Carlton. Fictional. Imagine that. On a site called FanFICTION-dot-net. Dedicated to RebekahCaren for sticking to her guns and especially to the small, mouthy lot of us who like Karlton & Lassiet & some of those other "unpopular" pairings. You don't like this pairing, I politely invite you to skip the story. My feelings won't be hurt.

I know I'm in the midst of **_The Kiss_**—I intend to continue to work on it. This one, however, wouldn't let go.

Also? I own nothing of **_psych_. **I'm just cavorting amidst the crazy.

* * *

It had been a day of both wins and losses.

A win because two victims—a civilian, innocent but for a single relationship, and a skilled, decorated police officer, also innocent but for that same relationship—had survived the machinations of a madman who sought to damage the one individual he despised more than any other.

A loss, because said madman had eluded capture and remained at large, free to strike another day. Which he would. Of that she had no doubt.

A win, because her team—and they _were_ hers, by God—had worked together and survived a test of wits and wills at which lesser teams would have failed.

A loss because the person she most would have expected to be in her corner—would have hoped would celebrate the wins with her—wasn't.

"I _said_ I was sorry, Richard—"

"And that makes it okay? I had to cancel this trip in order to stay with Iris, Karen. Do you understand what this may have cost me professionally?"

"I _do_ know. And I am exceedingly—"

"Do not say it again. I don't want to hear it. It's a meaningless word. A sentiment which carries absolutely no weight—especially from you."

She flinched away from the phone, stung as if physically slapped. "How can you say that?"

"Because if you had it to do over again, you'd do it exactly the same way."

He had her there. With her nephew, who'd been nannying Iris, off interviewing for nursing jobs this week, she'd intended to take the time off to spend with Iris. Time she'd expected to spend checking out daycares and interviewing babysitters. Yin had very effectively thrown a wrench into that plan, with the case and Abigail Lytar's and O'Hara's abductions quickly taking precedence. And in the ensuing chaos, she'd completely forgotten about Richard's long-planned business trip. And while she was sorry for being so caught up in the investigation she'd neglected to call him in time to make other arrangements and while she was _very_ sorry for his missed professional opportunity, the absolute truth was, she wasn't _that_ sorry.

So yeah. She would do it exactly the same way.

Very quietly she said, "People's lives were at risk. An innocent civilian. One of my officers."

"_Your_ officers."

"They are mine," she insisted. "They're under my watch—my protection. They're family."

"Oh, I know." She could picture him in her mind's eye—fists opening and closing slowly by his side, in time with each measured breath. A long-practiced calming technique. "You know, sometimes I think you hold them in higher regard—would go further for them—than for your own family."

"That's not true—" she responded automatically, yet it sounded weak, even to her. Not further. Never further. Richard… oh, God… _Iris_… they were her life. However, she would go equally as far for her officers. A fact of which her husband was damned well aware.

"When are you coming home?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject, but not really. It was merely a thinly-veiled litmus test. And her guilt evaporated in a sudden, stunning burst of anger.

"I'm not done here, yet," she replied, her voice cool and even. "I'm not sure when, exactly, I'll be free to go. I'll call the nanny service Jason left references for. They should be able to at least provide someone to lend a hand. Allow you the opportunity to at least video conference in."

Because there was always a way. If there was anything this case had brought home—with Yin's failed attempts to cause one, preferably _two_, fatalities by forcing Shawn to choose between Abigail and O'Hara—it was that there was _always_ a way.

Even more smoothly she added, "If I recall correctly, the actual meeting wasn't until tomorrow, was it not?"

"Yeah."

He wasn't happy. Whether about missing the meeting face-to-face or whether it was because she'd recalled just enough to take the wind out of his righteous sails, she didn't know. Right now, she didn't care.

"I'll text you details as soon as I have them. Unless, of course, you'd like to call the service yourself?" she asked in that same cool, smooth tone. The one used to put many an officer in their place over the years. "The number is on the kitchen desk."

"Why don't you do it," he said tightly. "I need to call into work and see if I can arrange to make the meeting virtually."

"Fine." She took a deep breath and attempted to gentle her tone. "I'll be home as soon as I can."

But her words were spoken to thin air, as he'd already disconnected the call.

She desperately wanted to drop her head to her desk and close her eyes, but she couldn't. There was still so very much to do. So very much to clean up, troops who'd had their confidence shaken to reassure, and—

Her gaze sought out first one empty desk, then another. After O'Hara's collapse, which Karen had observed from a distance, Lassiter had finally managed to convince her to be checked out by medical personnel before escorting her home. Karen had fully expected he would remain with his partner as long as necessary and so therefore, had been shocked to see him come striding into the precinct hours later. O'Hara had wanted to be alone, he informed Karen and he respected his partner's right to privacy. Her need to gather herself or fall apart, as required. It didn't, however, mean he hadn't insisted she take one of the heavy duty sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed. After a protest that really wasn't and continued reassurances from him that succumbing to the need to lose herself in a deep, dreamless sleep in no way made her weak or less than brave, she'd finally consented

Between the shock, the wearing off of adrenaline, and the narcotic, he expected her to be out for at least twelve hours. And if she wasn't, the monitor he'd left at her apartment would alert him the moment she awoke.

There _had_ been a layer of something more beneath the explanation and the swagger and cocky assurances—an unfamiliar slump to his shoulders, the deep slash between his dark brows more pronounced than usual. However, before Karen could probe any further—check on _his_ well-being—her phone had rung. Richard. Again. And she could not, in good conscience, ignore this call.

Hadn't thought she wanted to ignore this call.

Right now, though, she kind of wished she had. And couldn't even bring herself to feel all that guilty about it.

After making the necessary call to the nanny service and texting Richard the pertinent information, she wandered out into the bullpen. Bypassing the coffee station, she paused first by O'Hara's desk, then Carlton's. She recalled seeing him sitting there, staring at his monitor, but couldn't, for the life of her, recall seeing him leave. She turned in a slow circle, her gaze taking in the familiar hum of the station, perhaps a bit more subdued today, because despite the victory, it had been far too close.

He wasn't here. Even without signs such as the darkened computer screen and the lack of his jacket neatly hanging on the coat rack, she'd know with absolute certainty he wasn't here.

Because she couldn't sense him.

Couldn't sense his Carltonness—some indefinable, essential aspect of his being that she recognized on some subconscious level.

Perhaps she might have been alarmed, or at the very least, bemused by the realization she was that sensitive to the man who'd frustrated her so often and so thoroughly over the years. Close to seventy-two hours without sleep and the utter strangeness of the Yin/Yang case, however, appeared to have rendered her even more unflappable than usual.

And had lowered her personal defenses enough to allow her to admit what less than a day earlier would have been inadmissible—unbelievable, really. She wanted to see him. Wanted to sit for a while—maybe share a drink—with the one person in this world she knew would understand, without explanation or argument, just how deeply this case had affected her.

At that moment, her screen flashed with a text alert.

_Tried to finish the case report at the station. Couldn't. Went home. I'll have it for you in the morning. C.L._

The message was typically brusque, but like his earlier appearance at the station, layered with far more than the words alone conveyed.

He would understand—without explanation or argument—just how deeply this case had affected her. The same way she understood how very deeply it had affected him.

Weary beyond measure, she looked around the bullpen, her people—_hers_—going about their jobs, as efficient and dedicated as ever. Dear God, she had so very much left to do.

But suddenly, only one thing she _had_ to do.

Twenty minutes later, she paused, her hand raised to his door. He was so very quiet and internal and preferred to be left on his own to lick his wounds in private. But everyone had their limits and it _had_ been a very bad night. One of many in a very bad year.

Drimmer. Salamatchia. The finality of his divorce, Wrongly accusing Hank Mendel of murder and with it, losing what little bit of childhood innocence might have remained. Now, the near-loss of his partner and best friend. Karen had _seen_ the stark lines of dismay mingled with relief as he'd held O'Hara. Knew he was reliving every moment leading up to that fateful one where he jammed his gun into the gears, halting the inexorable, deadly countdown. Knew he was imagining the worst had he not raced up the stairs in time. Knew he nevertheless felt as if he'd failed because he'd allowed her be taken in the first place.

So damned many wounds.

Everyone had their limits and at some point, comfort had to come from some other source.

She allowed her hand to drop to the wood, her knuckles rapping softly—almost hesitantly—despite her intent.

As she debated the wisdom of her actions—what the hell was she doing here, shouldn't she be racing home, apologizing yet again to her husband and holding her daughter close—the door swung open. He stood on the other side of the threshold, the deep blue light of his eyes dimmed with exhaustion and emotion, yet not so much so she couldn't read the slight surprise.

Yet despite his surprise, he said nothing, revealed nothing more, simply stepped aside, ushering her in before closing the door behind her. As she wandered further into the living room, she heard the sound of a cabinet opening and closing—moments later, he reappeared, pouring a generous measure of whisky into a fresh glass and topping off his own from the open bottle that stood on the coffee table. After handing her the glass, he stepped back to the bookshelves from which his dress blues hung. Still silent, he tossed back the contents of his glass and set it aside before returning to the task of polishing the already brilliant silver buttons.

Watching him, so diligent, so intent, and so very grim, Karen felt her heart break.

"You're not going to need that any time soon."

"You don't know that."

"Carlton—"

"You _don't_, Karen." He methodically rubbed each button with a soft, cotton rag, the pungent aroma of silver polish mixing with the acrid scent of the whisky in a combination that was all too familiar.

"It could have been O'Hara." His gaze remained resolutely fixed on the buttons. "It could've been McNab or Henry or Spencer and you know, even if it'd been Spencer, I still would wear this uniform for him."

Karen held a mouthful of whisky on her tongue as Carlton spoke, savoring the different layers: sharp, bitter, smoky, and underlying it all, a surprising sweetness. Swallowing, she set the glass beside his on the table and went to stand beside him. Slowly, her fingertips drifted over the immaculate blue wool, traced the citation bars and the gold double-looped cord and the lapel pins, all evidence of his rank and level of excellence at the job which defined him. Finally, she traced each of those shining silver buttons, slipping each one through its corresponding hole.

"It could have been you," she said as she tugged gently at the jacket's hem. "Depending on the whim of a madman, it could just as easily have been me." She brushed away an imaginary speck of lint from the dark blue expanse, allowed her hand to trail along one sleeve as she tried to recall the last time she'd seen him in this most formal of wear.

She couldn't.

She wasn't so self-centered as to congratulate herself for that. Maybe it was simply that she didn't _want_ to remember. No cop ever wanted to, even with the knowledge that they could be called upon to wear it at any time living within them.

Brilliant shafts of late-afternoon sun, incongruous in light of the events of the past few days, spilled across the floor, bathing the room in warmth yet casting odd, fractured shadows that seemed to bob and weave along with the sudden breeze that drifted through the open windows. Nearby wind chimes tinkled with a soft, mellow resonance while somewhere down the street, children's laughter rang out—far enough away to not disturb the immediate sense of privacy, but close enough to serve as a sign that yes, life continued on. Even as a psychotic criminal, but one of many, continued to lurk and plan and wreak havoc. Even as they celebrated lives saved and pondered the many ways they might have been lost.

"Why are you here?"

"I was worried about you."

"And—?"

_And_—

With only that moment's hesitation she responded, "And I was worried about me." Her hand rose to the uniform's collar, the tips of her fingers easing beneath the edge, straightening it with purpose and gentle care.

A subtle intake of breath was her only sign he was affected by her response.

"It was too close."

Hushed and controlled as it was, his voice nevertheless broke on the final word. It was that slight crack—that edge of vulnerability—that had Karen turning away from the uniform she acknowledged she didn't want to see him wear any time soon. Facing him, she reached up, her fingertips easing beneath the edge of his collar, twisted from where he'd impatiently yanked his tie free, straightening it with purpose and gentle care. He stood still beneath her ministrations, his hooded gaze dark blue and watchful.

"It was close, Carlton. But that's all it was."

"This time."

Damn him. _So_ stubborn. But it was that stubborn watchfulness and that iron-willed refusal to yield—ever—that had saved him many times over the years. Had saved all of them.

Except her.

"Karen, why are you here?"

She'd never been a position for him to have to save her.

Had she?

She stared up into his face, lined and tired and gray with exhaustion and worry, making his eyes stand out all the more. Or maybe it was just that she'd never seen them focused so very intently on her.

"Why?" he repeated more softly, his vivid blue gaze searching, clearly looking deep for answers she wasn't even certain she herself had.

Unable to answer, all she could do was straighten his collar with one hand, the other rising, almost of its own volition, to rest on his chest.

"Oh, hell," he breathed, all fiery whisky and warm, live male. "Fire me if you have to."

She wouldn't be firing him.

How could she in all fairness fire him when she was meeting his kiss more than halfway?


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

Sweet merciful Lady Justice on a vicious, vengeful rampage. How the hell much had he had to drink last night?

It had to be booze, right? What else would explain the onslaught of sledgehammers against his eyeballs and the buzzard that had died a painful, horrible death in his mouth?

He attempted to force his scattered thoughts into some semblance of order, swearing as his brain refused to respond with its usual razor-sharp devastation and swift, pinpoint accuracy. Okay, yeah—_definitely_ booze. He recalled cracking open a fresh bottle of Jack in the wake of Marlowe's stunning—yet really, not all that surprising because this _was_ him they were talking about—betrayal, and getting more than a little intimate with it. He recalled a phone call laden with pathetic—yet somehow surprisingly sincere-sounding although they all knew that was a crock of crap—attempts to get him to listen to…

To…

Something.

About… Chanukah?

No. That had been him. Festival of lights. In his chest. That didn't have a damned thing to do with Chanukah. Because seriously, why take eight nights to do what could easily be accomplished in two hours? Three, if Christmas Mass was part of the equation. No… it had just been his clearly inadequate attempts to explain how he'd let her _in_, dammit. How he'd allowed her to see that he wasn't really the dark, bitter, cynical, burned-too-damned-many-times, automaton the rest of the world seemed to view him as.

He'd honestly thought she'd possessed the rare ability to look beyond all of that to see who he really was. But she'd turned out to be just like all the other Jezebels, toying with his emotions, making him _believe_—

Jesus God—when he considered how often he called Spencer an asshat. Not that it wasn't deserved, mind you, because it absolutely, without a doubt was, but for once, Spencer wasn't the only asshat.

Naïve, hopeful, lovestruck, hormone-driven asshat.

Who'd apparently gotten really, _really_ drunk.

Now he was going to have to drag his hungover ass out of bed and make it into work and deal with Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber. Worse still, he'd have to deal with O'Hara. With her sympathy and quiet, unwavering support. She'd want to talk—might even venture forth a conversational gambit—but with any luck, he'd be able to shut her down and let her know he didn't want to talk about it.

Mostly because there wasn't a damned thing to talk about.

But for all of that unmitigated joy to happen, he had to actually _get_ to work, no matter that before its expiration—no doubt due to his expert marksmanship—the buzzard who'd died in his mouth had apparently had time to build a nest and lay eggs that had hatched into little bastard baby buzzards who were currently pecking away at the inside of his skull with malicious glee.

Didn't the little feathered vermin know he had nothing more to give them?

Never mind. Time was a'wasting. Slowly, he blinked, a groan escaping as his eyes snapped open in shock, allowing what felt like a painful flood of light to pour into his poor, abused skull.

Why the hell was he in an interrogation room?

In restraints?

Had he been captured by the enemy?

What enemy?

Fight or flight kicked in, prompting him to thrash—do something, _anything,_ that would get him free. Get him the hell away.

"No, Carlton… stop." The pressure—strangely warm and... comforting—increased across his chest and around one wrist. "_Shh_… relax. You haven't been captured by the enemy."

Immediately, he settled. That voice—it was familiar. Reassuringly so. Haunting, even.

Curious, but with great caution, he blinked again, allowing his vision to adjust. Honestly, it wasn't really all that bright—it was merely an expanse of white that appeared to go on forever—just layers upon layers of overwhelming white. Coupled with a familiar sterile aroma and a chill he truly and deeply disliked. A shiver traveled through him, stilled only when it reached the restraint on his right wrist, which turned out to be not cold metal or thick, rough leather, but rather… soft.

Warm.

Reassuring.

Haunting, even.

The memory of that touch had lived with him for a long damned time. A memory he'd imagined was all he would ever have.

"Karen—"

His brows drew together at the unfamiliar croak. Who the hell else was in here with them? With _her_? Just as he was marshaling his strength to take on whoever was in here with them—whoever was croaking at her with such obvious longing—a cup with a straw appeared in front of him.

Oh. Okay, then. The unfamiliar croak had come from him. Clearly, the buzzard's mate had died in his throat.

Finally fully able to focus, he looked past the cup to find her standing beside him, uncharacteristically disheveled, clearly exhausted, yet smiling and so damned pretty as she smiled and held the cup steady.

"Karen?" he croaked once again, disbelief and the painful dryness in his throat making it emerge weak and thready. Had he died?

"You haven't died." The hand on his wrist moved to the back of his head, easing it up slightly. "Drink," she urged. "Doctors said you need to hydrate."

Doctors. He was in a… hospital? He took in his surroundings as he slowly drank, the water cool and soothing against his ravaged throat. The white... the sterile... the chill. Yep. A hospital. So then—he was getting the distinct impression whatever had happened to him rated a bit higher than a hangover. Rated higher, even, then being slipped that mickey during his misbegotten adventures with Spencer, Guster, and Woody. Which reminded him—he still needed to file sexual harassment charges against the creepy coroner. But first, he had to figure out what in the _hell_ happened to him this time?

And maybe more importantly, why was Karen with him? Holding a cup to his lips, her warm hand cradling his head with infinite gentleness, fingers threaded through his hair and dear God, was she ever-so-subtly caressing his scalp? With a touch that could only be described as… tender?

Maybe he had died and inexplicably gone to heaven.

He gazed into her face as he drank, able to read her concern for him mostly because the Chief Vick façade had slipped far enough to reveal Karen. A Karen he'd only seen once before. That time, he'd imagined her concern a momentary lapse.

He continued staring into her face, into her eyes, luminous against her pale skin and filled with not only concern, but a healthy dose of care as well. Well then. _Not_ momentary.

With a sigh, he eased back to the pillows, shivering as her hand slowly slipped from the back of his head to briefly caress his cheek and push his hair back from his forehead before returning to his wrist.

"What happened?" he asked in a voice that remained hoarse, but for altogether different reasons.

Placing the cup on the rolling tray, she pushed it aside and eased herself down to sit on the mattress, hip nestled intimately against his. The feel of her so closely molded to him, even if it was only at one point of connection separated by a sheet, brought to mind images of her closely molded to him—at as many points of connection as were humanly possible and without a damned sheet or, you know, _clothes_, between them.

Crap on a cracker. Guess whatever had happened to him wasn't bad enough to affect his baser instincts. He held himself very, very still. And prayed.

She cocked her head, her dark brown gaze laden with equal doses of aggravation, humor, and concern. Pretty much par for the course, although the concern appeared to be front and center, very nearly obliterating the other two. Definitely a switch from the usual.

"You were an idiot," she finally said.

Indignant, he started to sit up, failing miserably simply from the touch of her free hand to his chest. "Honestly, Carlton, you've been training yourself to withstand the effects of chloroform for the past fifteen years?"

Chloroform? Oh sweet baby Jesus. _Now_ he remembered, the memories shuffling through his mind like a series of movie stills. Being on the phone with Marlowe. Drowning his sorrows in Jack. A knock on the door. Adrian. Marlowe's brother. Attacking him with a chloroform-soaked rag like a villain out of some Victorian novel. Except this wasn't a novel and Adrian wasn't a villain. Just a desperate, very sick, young man.

Who would have killed him.

That's what Marlowe had been trying to warn him about.

"It seemed prudent," he muttered, intensely aware of Karen's hand on his chest, the tips of her fingers resting just above the curved neckline of the hospital gown. Never mind that the flimsy cotton was doing absolutely nothing to provide a barrier against the warmth of her skin, seeping into his and straight down to his bones.

"Besides, I had nothing better to do." He stared past her shoulder to the stupid wildlife print on the wall. And prayed some more.

"Oh, Carlton." Those fingertips moved almost imperceptibly, yet he felt each stroke as intensely as if it was the most deliberate, erotic caress.

Still praying.

"You still haven't told me how I wound up here," he managed as his free hand rose to cover hers. Not to stop her. God no. He just _had_ to touch her.

She stared down at his hand resting on top of hers. "All the liquor you drank combined with the chloroform to knock you on your ass."

"Did _not_." One more he bristled, tried to sit up, and once more found himself gently held in place by the increased pressure of her hand on his chest. He stared into her eyes, hypnotized into stillness by the deep brown. Screw the chloroform—nothing had the ability to knock him on his ass quite like a steady gaze from Karen Vick.

Her sweet full mouth—dear God, had it really been nearly two years since he'd kissed that mouth?—curved in a smile that was equal parts tolerant and exasperated.

"It didn't," he grumbled, half protest, half attempt to distract himself from how incredibly... _distracting_ she was, sitting beside him. "I freed myself from my restraints and apprehended my assailant. Made sure he was brought to the hospital in protective custody. Hell, I even made sure Guster got medical help after he ingested some of the chloroform, the lily-livered pantywaist."

"You did."

And she looked so pretty and agreeable and reasonable. Which meant he'd made an ass of himself, didn't it?

"What?" he snapped.

"I believe Mr. Spencer described it in rather breathless terms as you _swooning_ into his arms." The corners of her mouth twitched. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he's harboring a bit of a mancrush on you."

His brows drew together so tightly, he winced. "Take that back."

A laugh escaped but rather than irritate him, it allowed him to relax. Maybe even smile a little at the absurdity of the scene she described.

"Poor O'Hara."

"_Pfft." _Karen's eyes rolled, so eloquently, he felt his smile broadening. "It's her choice."

"Hell if I understand why."

"I think it would take graduate degrees far beyond what either of us possesses in order to even begin to scratch the surface of attempting to understand."

"Hm."

She took advantage of the momentary lapse in conversation to again offer him a much-needed drink before settling back down beside him, hip once against nestled intimately against his, the thigh she'd lifted to the mattress radiating warmth along his side. Her thumb traced absent circles on the inside of his wrist while her other hand returned to his chest, a warm, comfortable weight and now that the fog was beginning to clear, he couldn't help but wonder—

"Why are you here?"

Her head was bent, impeding his ability to see into her face—to read her gaze. As deep and inscrutable as the brown could be, her eyes were nevertheless lit from within with brilliant shards of gold and green—tiny windows illuminating her thoughts and emotions. Once upon a time, he'd lacked the ability to read those thoughts—hadn't even realized they were there. Then again, that was before one magical afternoon that had forever changed how he saw Karen Vick.

"O'Hara called me as a matter of course," she said to his chest. "Told me the EMTs were bringing in Adrian Viccellio, Mr. Guster, and you."

Was it his imagination or did her voice drop on the word "you?" Slowly, his hand covered hers once more. His breath caught as he felt her thumb slip free and curl over his fingers, effectively folding them around hers.

"It's nothing life-threatening Karen. At least, not for me."

Guster, that lightweight, might well be in a coma for all he knew. Adrian, of course… he had a long road ahead of him, but at least now he'd get the care he so desperately needed. While normally, he was all for allowing worthless criminals to rot into nonexistence—less baggage for the state to carry—in this case, he was prepared to… make an exception. Marlowe undoubtedly cared deeply for her brother. Had sacrificed a great deal for him.

"It didn't matter that it wasn't life-threatening." Her voice dropped further. "You were attacked, Carlton."

"Not the first time," he said matter-of-factly. "I highly doubt it'll be the last." He lifted a shoulder. "Actually, sure as hell hope it won't."

"Don't say that." Her voice shook as beneath his hand, her fingers twisted in the thin fabric of his gown.

"Karen, it's my job. If I get attacked, with any luck, it spares someone else. At least I'm trained for it."

"And even so, you very nearly didn't escape this time."

Carlton realized then, her voice wasn't shaking because she was frightened—it was because she was mad. Inescapably, deeply, almost irrationally angry.

It should have made him angry in turn. How dare she question his abilities? Except he knew that wasn't the root of her anger. No—this anger ran deeper. Had an almost personal feel to it. An understanding that kept his voice gentle.

"But I did."

Her head wasn't bent so far he couldn't see her mouth thinning into a straight light before she blew out a long, steady stream of air. The damp warmth bathed his skin and left him breathing just a little faster. Wanting more. Wanting what he couldn't have.

"It was too close."

The tiny hairs on the back of his neck rose. An echo of that too-long-ago afternoon. His words to her except then, they'd been about O'Hara. The closest he'd been able to come to expressing his terror at very nearly being too late. Now he heard that same terror reflected back at him from this unlikeliest of sources.

"God, Karen, what the hell are you doing here?"

Slowly, her head rose, her gaze wrapping itself around him like the softest, plushest blanket ever created. He wanted to do nothing more than burrow more deeply into the warmth and security it promised, but how could he?

It wasn't his to claim.

Yet… he nevertheless found himself reaching toward that inviting warmth, desperate to feel it, if only just once more.

"What are you doing here?" he repeated, an edge of desperation in his voice as he watched her lean down, the blunt ends of her hair brushing his cheeks

"I had to see," she whispered.

"See what?"

Her lips brushed his as she sighed, "You," just before closing the last millimeter of distance between them.

It had felt like forever since their last kiss.

It felt like no time at all had passed.

Her mouth still fit to his as if it were made solely for him. Her tongue was still warm and insistent and utterly lacking in shyness as it probed for entry he was only too happy to grant. Her skin, beneath his hand, was still soft and silky and still demanded he touch more, touch her everywhere he possibly could. He shifted, both arms going around her back, one hand sinking into her hair, the other creeping beneath her shirt to explore the expanse of her back, sleek and strong with muscle, yet pliable and completely, utterly feminine beneath his caresses. Her hands cupped his face, holding him steady so she could plunder and explore for herself, her teeth biting gently, marking a path all her own along his throat and jaw before retuning to his mouth, each kiss deeper and hotter than the one before.

It had been so damned close before. Holding each other, sinking to his sofa, exploring each other with a stunned sort of wonder until the corner of his reality that never fully succumbed to anything, poked him rudely, reminding him this woman _was not his_. Had forced him to draw back, hands fisted in her hair and breathing heavily.

Every bit as breathless, she'd confessed the fight with her husband then. Had confessed her desire to simply _be_ with someone she knew would understand the events of the day and how they'd affected her. Had confessed he was the first person she'd thought of. Had confessed _he_ was the only person she wanted to be with in that moment.

Had confessed, to her own surprise, she wanted more.

And had confessed, haltingly and with genuine regret even he, notoriously bad people skills and all, couldn't miss, that there was no way it could happen.

He'd confessed, with a shaking voice and a complete lack of embarrassment, that he felt the same damned way.

They'd left it with a final lingering kiss that contained so much tenderness and heat and the promise of a passion unlike any he'd ever experienced, he'd very nearly said to hell with all their good intentions and would have gladly paid the piper.

Except what it would have cost her amounted to so much more.

So he'd let her go and had lived in a quiet state of hurt ever since. A hurt exacerbated when the only other person he trusted as much as he did Karen had betrayed him in the worst possible way.

He didn't give a rat's ass that O'Hara was with Spencer, other than he feared for her sanity. He did, however, give a rat's ass she felt she'd had to hide it from him. It stunned him, really, how very… _alone_ that made him feel. As if everything he'd believed about the last several years and the nature of their relationship had been nothing more than an elaborate delusion. The Universe playing the mother of all jokes on him.

Until Marlowe came along and left him convinced _that _was the Universe playing the mother of all jokes on him.

Except having Karen in his arms—again—and knowing he couldn't have her—_again_—

_That_ was the Universe playing the mother of all jokes on him. The bitch.

"Karen—stop," he groaned. "I can't do this." Even so, he maintained his hold on her, breathing harshly against the side of her neck.

"And I shouldn't."

The words emerged barely above a whisper, hardly loud enough to penetrate both of their heavy, gasping breaths, but Carlton nevertheless heard them, loud and clear. Moving his hands to her shoulders, he pushed her back just far enough to look into her face. And its expression that could only be described as… guilty.

"What do you mean, 'shouldn't?'"

In a very soft voice she haltingly said, "Richard and I, we're… separated."

He kept his gaze fixed on hers, studying every subtle flicker, registering every tiny movement or indrawn breath. "How long?"

Her mouth thinned briefly. "A few months. We're in couples therapy." He watched the slender column of her throat tense, the muscles working as she swallowed. "We're trying to make it work, Carlton. For Iris."

He recalled those days. Of course, his parents hadn't employed the practice of a professional who possessed credentials beyond a white collar. The "counseling" they'd received had pushed them to stay together because they _had_ to. For the sake of the children. And because to not do so was a sin. Yet he was the one who'd ultimately suffered the consequences.

"Is that such a good idea?"

Her hands spread across his chest, the fingers curled slightly, as if seeking purchase and trying to hang on.

"We can't know unless we try."

As the man who'd hung on to a dead in the water marriage for over two years, without the benefit of children, he had absolutely no counter for that. No argument but one.

"Do you still love him?"

His heart plummeted with the slight inclination of her head. Then came to a complete and utter standstill at her next words.

"I'm not sure I'm still _in_ love with him, though." Her gaze rose, the light within the dark brown clearly articulating what she couldn't bring herself to say out loud.

"Oh God."

"But—" One hand rose to his face, her thumb gently caressing his mouth. "I have to try, Carlton." She eased back and straightened her shoulders. He followed her gaze to the bedside table where a piece of paper rested alongside his keys and phone and other personal effects.

"Marlowe called." He looked back at her to find her eyes turned a dark, flat brown, their expression completely shuttered. "I think she'd like to see you."

"Karen—"

She rose from the bed, although she kept hold of one hand. "Don't wait for me, Carlton. It's not fair to you."

"Don't you think I should make that call?"

She shook her head, a sad smile crossing her face. "Not this time, no." Swiftly, she leaned down and brushed her lips against his. "Go see her," she whispered.

Silently, he watched her leave the room, his lips damp and tasting ever so faintly of salt.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

**AN:** Betcha thought I forgot, huh? Nope. Just a lotta Real Life going on.

**AN2:** Obviously, from this point on the story needs to go a bit off the rails canon-wise. I expect you'll go with it.

This one's for Loafer who deserves a bright shiny.

* * *

The doorbell chimed, its mellow tones ringing through the house with a melodic resonance she'd always found soothing.

Not today.

Nope. Today it was jangly and discordant and highly intrusive, which is why she found it an easy summons to ignore. She didn't want to be intruded upon, dammit.

Whoever was at the door, however, didn't seem to be picking up on the "Go the Hell Away" vibes, ringing the damned thing a second time.

And a third… and then a fourth, each one shriller and more impatient, it sounded.

She idly wondered as she diligently continued about her task, if the fuse to disable the bastard was clearly labeled? Did it even matter? It was entirely possible she was more than a little willing to plunge the entire house into darkness if it meant that damned ringing would stop. Besides, come to think of it, dark _would_ rather suit her mood.

But even as the thought flitted in and out of the transom of her mind, the ringing ceased. About damned time.

Except it was then replaced by an incessant knocking that was even more aggressive and obnoxious than the doorbell. Still, though, she could ignore it. Because she would _not_ be intruded upon. It was Thursday—she'd arranged to take a rare Friday off and had made it _very_ clear when she left the station, she was not to be disturbed for the next seventy-two hours unless it was for an event of potentially catastrophic magnitude. Even then, she advised Sergeant Allen before she left the station, it should be considered very, _very_ carefully.

Frankly, right now, all of Santa Barbara could fall down around their damned ears and Karen wasn't sure she'd give a good goddamn.

She knew she really shouldn't feel this way.

She had no earthly right to feel this way.

Problem was, she felt this way.

Along with a healthy dose of stress and worry and an intense desire to wallow. Preferably in a bottle of rum and a tub of gelato.

Never let it be said that Karen Vick's wallowing didn't have a certain measure of class to it.

"Karen!"

Unconcerned, she slowly licked her spoon clean.

"Dammit, Karen, I know you're in there. I had McNab follow you home—he watched you go in and swears you haven't left. He may be an idiot, but he's an observant idiot."

She took a sip of the Dominican rum—a gift from the Mayor's office last Christmas—and savored the slow, caramel-and-spice burn. Swallowing, she dipped her spoon back into the sweet cream gelato, making certain to capture a decent-sized chunk of the sea-salt dark chocolate as well.

"Karen, open the damned door or I _will_ shoot the lock out. Don't think just because I'm restricted to only using one hand that my aim will be any less accurate."

Ha. As if he'd ever dare.

She paused, spoon icy against her lips as she considered who, exactly, was making the threat.

She sighed. Hell yeah, not only would he dare, he'd probably shoot the lock out and leave behind a decorative pattern just to prove his point.

Sighing again, she sucked the spoon clean and jabbed it into the open container before slinging herself off the stool and padding toward the door.

Rather than unlock it, however, she merely propped her forehead against the wood and snapped, "Go away."

"Karen—"

"I mean it, Carlton," she yelled through the door. "You're not the only one with a weapon and good aim."

"You wouldn't dare," he retorted in an uncanny echo of her own thoughts.

"You feeling lucky?" she shot back. "Especially considering your state."

"Please." Even through the heavy wood his derisive snort came through, loud and clear. "Even down a leg and an arm I've got better skills than eighty percent of the department."

"Yeah, but I'm in the twenty percent that _is_ better."

There was a brief pause before he matter-of-factly said, "Fair enough." A few moments of silence elapsed, long enough for hope to flare even as her heart sank. It really couldn't have been that easy, could it?

"Karen, please—open the door."

Again, hope flared as her heart sank, but for decidedly opposite reasons. Demanding Angry Arrogant Carlton she could deflect. She had years of practice shooting him down, exchanging barbs with him—deflecting.

This more subdued Carlton, however—the one whose voice barely penetrated the wood, yet that resonated all the way down to her bones—that one she was sort of helpless before. And he damn well knew it.

"Crap on a cracker," she muttered as she turned the lock and swung the door open to reveal Carlton, leaning heavily on a cane, a lock of normally-controlled hair falling over his forehead. The porch light reflected off the sweat sheened across his skin and emphasized the grayish pallor highlighted by two bright red splotches staining his prominent cheekbones.

In short, he looked like hell. And that was without taking into account the arm held tight against his chest by the sling. Something about seeing him so restricted—so…controlled by a force not of his own making—caused a dull pain to take up residence in her chest where it began poking at the combination of rum and gelato congealing in an uncomfortable lump in her stomach.

Swallowing hard, she managed a curt, "I so could've taken you."

"In your dreams." He limped into the foyer where he paused and waited as she closed and locked the door. She tried to tell herself keying in the alarm code was simply force of habit, but there wasn't enough rum or gelato that would allow her to buy into such a blatant lie.

"Drink?" she asked as she brushed past him and stalked back toward the kitchen, leaving him to follow. His slower pace allowed her enough time to toss back the contents of her glass and pour another. Not that she wanted the liquor—not really. Well, maybe a little. Anything to keep her from too closely examining her reasons for setting the alarm or dwelling on the quiet sigh Carlton hadn't bothered to hide as the last of the high-pitched beeps had faded.

A sigh that spoke of relaxation. Of… home.

Yeah—she _definitely_ needed more booze.

"I don't much care for rum. Besides, I can't." A small bottle of pills appeared next to the tub of gelato. "Ice cream, on the other hand…"

Karen clutched her glass in nerveless fingers as she watched him reach for her abandoned spoon and scoop a healthy measure of the softened Italian ice cream into his mouth, his eyes closing in appreciation. He dragged the spoon out from between his lips, his tongue following to capture an errant drop of melted cream.

She barely suppressed a whimper as his eyes opened, revealing a deep, sleepy blue that she suspected had nothing to do with the pain meds.

"Well then, if you don't mind," she managed to croak out as she swallowed the contents of her glass and poured yet another healthy measure of amber liquid.

"As a matter of fact—" In one smooth motion he took the glass and set it out of reach along with the bottle, the bastard. "I do."

"Why?" she all but whined. It had been a hell of a day—_week_, even—she needed succor, dammit. She did _not_ need Carlton, looking simultaneously damaged and strong, standing in her kitchen and looking at her like… like… _that_.

Like he knew what she was thinking and feeling and trying so damned hard to suppress with the able assistance of damned fine rum and even better gelato.

Or was that the other way around?

"Because I want you sober—reasonably," he added with a raised eyebrow glance at the bottle and its diminished contents, "while we talk."

She wasn't so far gone she couldn't hit him with her own raised eyebrow glare. With the added _oomph_ of crossed arms that he was currently incapable of pulling off. "About?"

His voice was soft, but his gaze direct as he said, "To begin with, the expression on your face in the immediate aftermath of the screening of Spencer's 'masterpiece.'"

Oh _hell_. She'd fought so hard to keep her emotional reactions strictly internal. Had convinced herself she'd succeeded when no one reacted in any manner other than normal to her observations that most of the room's inhabitants were sporting gunshot wounds and shooing them out under the pretense of having work to do. Lots and lots of work.

Clearly hadn't succeeded as well as she'd imagined. But who else might have noticed? Even as the thought occurred, she realized, no one. Because no one else would have. To be honest, she hadn't thought even he would notice. Why would he, after all?

_Idiot_, she scolded herself. He _would_ notice because he was who he was. And she was who she was. And they were—

_Nothing_.

She had to keep reminding herself of that. They were nothing. A situation entirely of her own making.

"The expression on my face might have had more to do with Dr. Strode's burblings about _Love and Basketball_, editing choices, and his unmitigated temerity in putting his arm around me." She allowed herself a very real shudder at the memory of the ever-genial Woody, reeking of Twizzlers, cheap cologne, and formaldehyde, pressing entirely too closely to her.

"I damn near lunged out of my chair with the full intent of ripping his arm out of the socket when he touched you."

"Why didn't you?" As soon as the words were out of her mouth she felt herself flush. What was she—fifteen?

The edges of his finely-etched mouth twitched in a half-smile. "Because you gave the very distinct impression that it was something you'd take great joy in doing yourself."

"You know me so well." Once again, the words burst free without any conscious thought or effort on her part.

It was the rum. Had to be.

His smile faded. "I thought I did." He shifted and winced, the skin around his eyes tight with pain and fatigue.

Once again, she took in the cane and the sling and the small bottle of pills that he'd so readily produced. It had been just over two weeks since he and O'Hara had disappeared into the woods, chasing after Spencer and Guster who'd been chasing after college film students who'd been chasing after Bigfoot who turned out to be nothing more than a man. A man who was so disillusioned with humanity, he'd retreated and didn't want to be chased or even seen and none of that mattered. What _did_ matter was because due to all of the above, along with able assistance from the Serbian mob, Carlton had had his leg damn near taken off by a bear trap, been swept away by a raging river and subsequently shot.

Which mean that basically, the root of the whole damned mess could be traced back to Mr. Spencer and Mr. Guster, mostly Spencer, since the otherwise intelligent Guster was inexplicably held in thrall to Spencer's own brand of Pied Piper idiocy.

The more of that stupid… _film_ had unfurled, the angrier she'd grown—at least, until the hurt had shown up and elbowed anger aside to set up camp. The two had quibbled in her psyche throughout the remainder of the film until she'd been unable to do more than sit stiffly in her chair, breathing shallowly and using every ounce of self-control to not take a swing a Spencer's pudgy face.

Or Carlton's far leaner one.

Still drawn in obvious pain that he was trying so hard to hide as he stood quietly while she allowed her alcohol-soaked mind to wander. Not saying a word or allowing even so much as groan to slip free. He merely leaned perhaps a bit more heavily on his cane while propping a hip against the kitchen stool she'd abandoned to answer his imperious summons.

She thought back to the film, to how his only confession to the level of his distress had been to the camera, in the dark, so certain no one was near enough to hear or watch him break down. And even then it hadn't been so much a breakdown as quiet words uttered with the last of his strength before his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell out of the frame.

Lord he was stubborn.

And she was a dolt.

"Why don't you go sit in the living room while I start some coffee," she offered mildly, knowing if she said anything about how he needed to rest or put his leg up or referred in any way to any perceived weakness, he'd argue and really, she wasn't in the mood. Manners, however, would dictate he could accept her offer while maintaining the façade that he was in control.

"Just coffee?" he asked with another one of those raised eyebrow looks.

Bastard. "Well, I do have some pie I could heat up."

"What kind?"

"Rhubarb."

That damnable eyebrow rose further. "_Just_ rhubarb?"

She drew herself up straighter. "Rhubarb's glorious tartness should never be sullied with any additional fruit."

That lovely full smile that so rarely made an appearance broke across his face, like the sun after a storm. "Woman after my own heart."

She watched him turn and make his painstaking way out of the kitchen. "You have no idea," she murmured, barely above a whisper.

Her heart stopped as he paused and turned his head, his distinctive profile limned in a silvery glow by hall light.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**AN: ** We head into ever-so-slight **M**-territory, my darlings.

* * *

He started to lean forward to place his empty plate on the coffee table, but almost before he'd even fully considered the action, found himself holding nothing but thin air.

"Can I get you another piece?"

Karen sat beside him, half-solicitous, half-anxious, and all beautiful, as she pressed her full lips together and fidgeted with the plates. She placed them on the coffee table, pushed them safely away from the edge, aligned them side-by-side, then changed her mind and stacked them instead, nestling both their forks neatly together on the top plate. Never once looking at him, she continued fussing in a manner completely foreign to everything he knew of Chief Vick, but that he intuitively understood was Karen, the woman he so badly wanted to know. Leaning forward, he gently grasped her arm, his touch making her look over her shoulder with an expression akin to that of a cornered deer reflected in her wide brown eyes.

Dear God, he wanted nothing more than to pull her close. Reassure her. Question her. Kiss her. He settled for a relatively mild, "Two slices is indulging—three borders on gluttony." Although it was very good pie and a third slice _was_ tempting. Almost as tempting as the piemaker herself.

She glanced down at his hand on her arm, but unlike her glare at Strode earlier in the day, her expression held no revulsion nor did she make any move to disengage herself. Gaze still fixed on his hand, she softly said, "You're too thin."

"Hospital food sucked."

A shadow passed across her face as beneath his hand, she tensed, going very still. Well then—there was a question answered. At least, in part.

"You might've been able to sneak me in an elk burger and fries if you'd actually come to see me."

Her mouth thinned briefly, her features tensing even further then relaxed along with the sigh he felt as intensely as if he'd released it himself . "I did."

"Karen—"

"I was there while you were in surgery. And recovery. I waited until the doctors were able to assure me you'd be all right." Her voice was very low, yet nevertheless rang with conviction.

"But… you never visited once I woke up."

A week he'd spent in that godforsaken pit of despair, waiting… Outwardly grouchy, yet quietly pleased that O'Hara visited as frequently as she did. Less so that Spencer and Guster insisted on tagging along, bringing nauseating combinations of food ostensibly to help him "feel better" and inevitably inhaling it all themselves. Oddly comforted by Henry's visits, knowing the older man understood what he was going through—at least physically—and somehow understanding that his presence would serve as proof that yes, it was possible to return from the edge, because if there was anything Carlton knew, it was how very close he'd come this time.

Which made Karen's absence sting all the more.

"I couldn't, Carlton."

"Why?"

"They would have known then. And I didn't think you'd want—" Her voice broke and she trembled slightly in his hold. The answers clarifying.

Slowly, he slid his hand down her arm to her hand—her _bare_ left hand—and very carefully took it in his. "And what about today?"

Another shadow, this one speaking more to a darker emotion, passed across her face, set now in still, stubborn lines.

"Karen," he repeated, keeping his voice as soft and as free from impatience as he possibly could. He thought he knew—thought he understood—but couldn't run the risk he might be wrong. It would cost too damned much.

Mutely, she shook her head. Bullheaded to the core and wasn't that one of the things he loved best about her? Which probably qualified him for some kind of headshrinking, so badly wanting a woman who was so stubborn, so headstrong, so damned much like him yet so much better in so many ways. A woman who'd been so damned unattainable for so long.

He felt a renewed flash of anger she'd not said anything to him about that particular change in circumstance, but suppressed it. That decision, at least, he understood. He wouldn't have said anything either.

"Baby, please," he pleaded quietly, letting the endearment he'd so often held back finally slip free. Hoping it would help.

Judging by the slight tensing of her hand in his an instant before she turned it over, locking her fingers with his, it helped. She still wouldn't look at him, though, as she murmured something, so softly, he couldn't quite make out all the words.

"What?"

Finally, she lifted her head and met his gaze head on, her eyes reflecting that same combination of hurt and anger he'd glimpsed just before O'Hara had spun his office chair around and wheeled him out of the office.

"You didn't say anything about me."

Little dots swam before his vision as he released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He considered how to answer before finally settling on her own words to him.

"I couldn't."

Her gaze dropped again. "Why?"

"I was trying to protect you."

His stomach clenched as he watched the slight quiver of her lower lip before she resolutely stilled it. He'd give anything not to have hurt her and wasn't sure she'd believe him that the entire time he'd been babbling to that stupid camera, light-headed and queasy and so damned sure the end was nigh, his overwhelming thoughts had been of her and everything they hadn't had.

"I didn't know who in the hell might see that footage, Karen. If I'd said _anything_ about you—even just thanking you for being my boss and not firing me despite repeated opportunity, it would have been painfully obvious what I really meant. How I… felt. If—" he paused, then forged on, because the last thing she was, was a coward.

"If the worst had happened, O'Hara, who's currently the executor of my estate, would have found in my possessions a letter."

Her glance rose, a thousand questions reflected deep within the brown.

"For you," he said. "Saying… everything I couldn't trust to that damnable camera." He swallowed hard. "She's the only one I would trust with something of that magnitude."

He watched as the hurt gradually faded, replaced by a sense of wonder and, he could only hope, the beginnings of belief. But she was who she was and he was who he was and he knew it could never be quite that simple or easy. Not for them.

"Then why did you say you were sorry?"

To Marlowe, she meant. He'd known she would ask. Hoped, even. He would've been deeply suspicious if she hadn't. They had to have all the answers—make certain the path was completely clear before they could move forward. It was his turn for his gaze to drop, focusing on their joined hands.

"After O'Hara pulled me from the water and got that bear trap off my leg,," he said steadily, "I had no doubt we'd get out of the mess those idiots and my own carelessness had landed us in and that as such, the status quo would remain in place."

He bit the inside of his cheek, his natural reticence fighting to keep him from saying anymore, but aware he had to lay it all out for her. It was the only way she'd be satisfied. Him, too, if he was brutally honest. "You didn't want me. Especially since you never said anything after you and Richard—"

"You were with Marlowe," she broke in. "And you seemed so happy."

"I was." He held tight to her hand as she flinched. Brutally honest. They could get past this. They had to. "As happy as I thought I had any right to."

"Oh, Carlton," she whispered, her hold tightening to the point of pain, but it was a pain he welcomed, feeling the desire behind it.

"I don't generally get happy endings, Karen. One appeared to fall in my lap and even with conditions, I was willing to take whatever I could get. Then more and more it looked like I wasn't going to make it out of those woods and I—" He felt a flush rise from the open collar of his shirt. "I knew if I somehow made it out alive, what I'd have to do and if I didn't—I just didn't want to leave anything unsaid."

"Does that mean—"

"I called her as soon as I was sober enough to make sense." He laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. Not really. He'd hated hurting her. Had hated he couldn't say what he needed to say to her face to face, since to him, delivering news of that nature via an impersonal phone call smacked of cowardice, but waiting until he was well enough to see her face to face had been out of the question. To paraphrase a quote recalled from a long ago date to _When Harry Met Sally_—his date's choice, of course—he realized that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with someone and he wanted it to start as soon as possible.

The characters had been idiots. But the quote had stuck with him.

"A conditional happy ending just wasn't enough, Karen. Or fair. For any of us. And if that meant I'd have to wait for you, then..."

Quiet fell then, broken only by the sound of his heartbeat and, he imagined, hers. Both erratic, yet oddly in sync. Fitting, that. Yet he still couldn't bring himself to look at her. Not yet. Not without some sign.

Because he was, in a word, terrified.

The knowledge that happy enough wasn't enough had seemed to make so much sense, lying in that damned hospital bed and even in the days after his discharge. Days spent hobbling around his condo, cursing his limited mobility and use of only one arm. Cursing that a service had to pick him up and transport him to rehab on a daily basis. Cursing the pain that dogged him without medication and the fogginess that enveloped him under the influence. Cursing extremely heavily and creatively at the knowledge he'd be restricted to desk duty for entirely too many weeks while Spencer and Guster wreaked God-only-knew-what havoc. Cursing that he couldn't talk to Karen. That no matter how often he picked up his phone and tried to dial, he couldn't because as bad as it had been, breaking up with Marlowe over the phone, there was no way he could talk to Karen, tell her everything he needed to tell her in the same manner. He _had_ to see her face-to-face.

Had to see her eyes, those beautiful dark windows with their green and gold lights providing illumination.

But hell, he was a coward of the highest order—as helpless as any idiotic, hormonal sixteen-year-old desperately wanting to ask the prettiest girl in school to prom and frozen into inaction by his fears and insecurities.

Thing was, she'd always come to him. Until now. Until he'd seen her face in the wake of that stupid film and the things said and things left unsaid. That was when Hope, that snide bastard, had poked him with a sharp pitchfork and hissed, _Now, you asshat. Now, it's your turn to go to her._

Now, though, sitting beside the woman with whom he wanted nothing more than that happy ending, no strings, no conditions, and the sense that maybe… possibly… it was an attainable goal, he was terrified.

Until the moment he felt her sigh bathe his skin with warmth as her free hand stroked his hair in the gentlest, most tender caress he'd ever experienced.

"Oh, Carlton."

He only caught a single brief glimpse of her eyes in the instant before her mouth touched his, but that glimpse was enough.

The rest of it, however—_God_, it would never be enough. He knew that as well as he knew as his own name, which actually, he was in serious danger of forgetting as she released his hand and proceeded to, for lack of a better word, _wrap_ herself around him. Mindful of his damaged shoulder and the sling holding him hostage, she carefully slung one leg over his thighs, while both hands tunneled deep into his hair, holding him steady as her mouth took possession of his, tasting, demanding, wanting… needing. The tiny part of his brain not short-circuiting into a mass of charged, hormonal goo, registered the sheer need in her touch, in the feel of her body against his.

If their first kiss had been about unexpected possibility and their second about desire destined to remain unfulfilled, this kiss was all about… everything.

He held everything and everything held him and he was damned if he was ever letting go.

As her fingers trailed down his neck, to his chest, her mouth and teeth following in their wake and marking a shivery, goosebump-inducing trail, he managed to gasp, "Bed—"

Issued as half-question, half-statement, because there was no way he was not having this woman tonight—it was simply a matter of where. He already knew, thanks to McNab's breathless "intel"—the idiot's word, not his—that shortly after Karen had arrived home, Iris had been collected by her father, weekend bag in hand. Which left comfort, rather than possible interruption as the determining factor.

"_Karen_—"

His vision blacked out—honest-to-God, blacked out—for the briefest instant at the sight of her pausing, mouth still on his chest, looking up at him with those luminous brown eyes. That gaze that had haunted his dreams and that begged him to delve deep into the mystery of this woman and lose himself for the rest of his life. Which he wanted to start as soon as damned possible.

"Which will be more comfortable for you?"

His stomach clenched at the damp, warm gusts of her breath against his skin and the feel of her hand, lightly stroking his stomach, as if to soothe except, judging by the slight arch to her eyebrow and the wicked glint in her eyes, soothing was the last thing she intended.

"I don't care," he groaned.

"And I don't want to wait," she murmured, almost to herself as she eased herself off him, leaving him entirely too cold, before his body temperature shot up to scorching as her nimble fingers finished off his shirt then immediately went to his belt buckle and the fastening of his dress slacks. Each caress light, yet no less devastating. The rasp of his zipper was loud in the otherwise quiet room, urgent, as if saying _finally_ as he arched against her touch, straining to be free from their clothes so he could feel nothing but her. Yet for all their mutual impatience, she was infinitely gentle, taking care to not rush, her touches to his body secure and… and…

He sighed.

_Loving_.

She touched him like she loved him. Like he mattered.

He knew in the days and years to come he'd fret that he hadn't taken enough time—that he'd been unable to lavish the attention on her that he wanted to and had dreamed of and that by God, she _deserved_—but he also knew, as she rose over him, somehow already nude and oh-so-glorious and ready, that they'd have opportunity. They'd have all the time in the world to explore and revel in each other.

Tonight, it was enough that she'd freed him not just from his sling, so he could carefully wind both arms around her, but also from his own insecurities and fears, allowing him welcome her into all the empty spaces that had been waiting, seemingly just for her as she rose over him and took him into her body, warm and inviting as if she'd been waiting…

Just for him.

Only for him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

This is a case of my using that horrific display by Shawn in the opening scene of _SantaBarbarian Candidate _ in order to indulge in shameless shmoop and **M**-rated action.

* * *

Karen held her breath, trembling as a lone drop of sweat trickled in a long, lazy line down her throat and between her breasts. Her hands closed into fists as she waited, helpless, knowing it would happen… soon… but at a loss as to exactly when or even how. She held herself very, very still, understanding that one wrong move, one sign of impatience, and it would all come tumbling down like a house of cards, returning them to square one where he would begin anew.

For he was nothing if not patient, the bastard. Especially when it came to this.

Thank God. Because to give herself over completely to him and his infinite stores of patience tended to yield the most magical, mind-bending, and _satisfying_ results. She hadn't thought it possible for their sex life to get any better—they were so perfectly matched—but slowly, _patiently_, he'd urged her to relax, to allow him to take his time, to take control. Not an easy task given maintaining control was a necessity in so many facets of her life, she found it damn near impossible to relinquish. But Karen was also possessed of an intense need to give Carlton everything _he_ desired. And if what he most desired was an extra measure of control in order to gift her with even more pleasure?

Another drop of sweat followed the path of the first, echoing the touch ghosting along her spine that left her shivering and sent bright shards of light streaking behind her closed lids.

"Open your eyes, baby."

She groaned. Oh God, was he insane? She couldn't. She just… _no_. And he should know that. To open her eyes meant to open herself to a sensory overload that could upend the delicate balance she was barely maintaining and snowball into something that, while intensely pleasurable, wasn't what he wanted. Really, as much as she wanted release, as close as she was, not what she wanted either. She squeezed her eyes tighter.

Goosebumps rose in a sudden wave as cool air met her sweat-dampened back.

"Don't go," she managed to gasp, her hands blindly grasping, twisting into smooth cotton sheets that provided yet another layer of friction.

"Open your eyes," he repeated patiently, his voice a low, sensuous rumble against her ear as the delicious heat draped itself over her body once again.

She simply couldn't. But as the heat began retreating once more, coupled with an aching sense of loss as he slowly withdrew, she willed her heavy eyelids to open, a crack at first, admitting nothing more than a sliver of light and shadows, then, as the motion behind her stilled, waiting, she forced them fully open, gasping at the sight that met her.

"Oh God," she sighed.

His chuckle rumbled pleasantly through her, making tiny heated shocks prickle along her skin and leaving everything aching in anticipation.

"Flattering, but not quite."

Unbidden, a laugh escaped, an intoxicating combination of vibration and sensation that drew her closer to the edge, yet paradoxically, pulled her back. Just far enough.

"Look," he whispered in her ear, his voice smoke dark and compelling. Her nipples tightened—hell, everything tightened, eliciting a groan from him that again served to both pull her toward that dangerous edge, yet kept her balanced. As he shifted restlessly behind her, the first sign of his own impatience, desire spiked, sending razor sharp ripples of sensation winding along her spine, yet allowing her to draw a breath and do as he asked.

"Look, Karen," he implored, so desperately wanting her to share in what he saw. So desperately wanting her with him, in all ways.

"I'm looking," she murmured, sighing as he lowered himself more fully over her, easing completely into her body.

The long closet door mirror revealed all—their bodies bent over her mattress, his darker head nuzzling her lighter, his larger frame surrounding hers, yet both of them so similarly fair-skinned, they blended seamlessly together. She watched his reflection's arms stretch, his hands capturing hers and locking their fingers together. As if from a distance, she observed his long form arch and flex, her body warring for dominance over her mind as it experienced the immediacy and intensity of the motion as it happened. She breathed heavily as she watched her body respond, rising to meet his, her head falling back against his shoulder as she felt muscles grasping, desperate to hold him close, yet equally desperate for the much-needed friction her body craved.

Over and over they performed the dance, gazes locked in the mirror's reflection as their bodies moved sinuously against each other, sweat and soft words and harsh breaths. They moved together, surrounded by the faint whiff of his cologne mingling with her perfume and the scent that was so completely, utterly _them,_ the combination an intoxicating cocktail of sensual pleasure. One Karen wanted to go on forever, yet she had no idea how she could last even one moment more. He'd already demanded so much of her—yet knew he held the promise of so much more. She just wanted it now… wanted it to last forever… wanted it now…

"Now, baby—"

Oh, God, yes, now…

One hand snaked between her thighs, punctuating his hoarse, "_Please—_"

His voice was drowned out by her cry as her orgasm hit, crashing with the intensity of a tsunami, smaller waves continuing to wash ashore and sweeping over her body with both soothing release and sustained desire.

She collapsed to the mattress, gasping in pleasure as he followed her down, bearing the majority of his weight on his arms, yet maintaining full-body contact as if loathe to break any connection between them, however slight. Aftershocks quaked through his body and into hers The hair on his chest rubbed against her back with each shuddering gasp, the friction almost too much for her over-sensitized system to bear, yet perversely making her want more. A continuous circle of pleasure that ever-so-gradually eased back, high tide receding after its peak.

She sighed as she drew their still joined hands in close enough to press a gentle kiss to the back of his. It was the _please_ that always did her in. Always deep with passion, always as much demand as request, always underscored by his formidable control and iron will, yet always threaded with more than a hint of the desperation that _always_ matched hers.

She may have relinquished control to him in the bedroom, but it was a gift, given freely with the knowledge he returned the same to her.

With a deep sigh, he finally rolled to the side only to immediately gather her close, nuzzling the sweat-dampened hair by her ear.

"Better?" he murmured, his breathing calm and steady. And damn him if something about each measured breath, how it ruffled the fine, silky hair near her ear and teased the sensitive skin, didn't spark the beginnings of renewed arousal.

She _should_ have been satiated. Not to mention, that soft growl, emanating from deep within his throat and sure sign of already renewed desire should have been impossible.

And yet…

She sighed and nuzzled the base of his throat, tasting the sweat pooled there as she ran her hand along his damp side. It was inhuman, was what it was.

Less inhuman, his inherent understanding of exactly what she needed. He somehow always knew.

Initially, it had unnerved her—being so fully exposed to another—until she realized she somehow always knew exactly what he needed, too. It was simply how _they_ were. A layer of understanding existing between them as a source of strength and quiet comfort.

Karen knew, those rare times she floundered, helpless, Carlton would be there. He would _always_ be there. Outwardly, he remained as irascible and socially awkward and remote as ever, but with nothing more than a look that promised, _later_, he would let her know he was there. As she was for him, scolding, calling him on the carpet when he behaved like an ass, quelling his too-frequent outbursts with the look perfected over the years, yet always following it with the other, newer look that agreed _yes, later. _

"Better," she sighed against the underside of his jaw.

His arms tightened around her. "So it's safe to liberate your service weapon from where I hid it?"

She tensed, recalling the reason why, exactly, Carlton had felt the need to confiscate her sidearm and why she'd so desperately needed this post-work interlude. Aside from the fact that she always needed Carlton.

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Roger that. I kind of feel the need to keep mine locked away for a while longer, too." He leaned back far enough to meet her gaze, the satiation turning his eyes a deep, sapphire fractured by silvery shards of frustration.

Oh, hell no, that would _not_ do.

She lowered her head and rubbed her cheek against his chest, relishing the drag of hair against skin and the steady beating of his heart. "I love you," she whispered, smiling as she felt his heart speed up.

"I love you, too." His hands framed her face as he pulled her up to meet his kiss, the anger ebbing away, replaced by far more pleasurable sensations. More relaxed now, they kissed for long moments, a leisurely exploration, their fingers linked together in a hold more sweet than passionate.

Easing their heads back to the pillows, he stroked her hair back from her face. "Honestly, I wasn't sure who was more liable to pop off and shoot the asshat," Carlton mused. "You or O'Hara."

"Well, at least my reason was fairly clear—or should have been. And why Gavin simply stood there and allowed Spencer to grandstand in that manner—"

"The same could have been said of you, Karen. On a lot of occasions."

She stopped cold at his calm words, a wave of anger washing over her that left her rigid with tension, before just as quickly dissipating. Dammit. Much as she might hate admitting it, he was right. And the fact that he felt he could confront her with what he had to consider a massive weakness on her part while they lay together, still wrapped in a haze of sexual satisfaction was a sign, clearer than almost any other, of how very much he trusted her.

"Thank you."

He blinked, clearly startled. "For what?"

"For trusting me enough to say something like that. For trusting… us." She trailed her fingertips along his jaw, noting how the light from the setting sun picked out the silver amidst the dark of his emerging beard. They were both of them older and wiser, but still— "I know how difficult trust is for you. To be on the receiving end of it—it's a gift."

Faint red streaked along his broad cheekbones. "Come on, Karen."

"Carlton, sweetheart—you don't trust the barista to get your coffee order right."

That ever-skeptical dark brow rose as he snorted. "Yeah, well—you exist on a completely different plane from a barista. Far as I'm concerned, they occupy one of Dante's circles. Especially the chirpy ones."

She grinned briefly before sobering. "You don't trust O'Hara. At least not the way you once did."

A shoulder rose in a slight shrug. "Well, O'Hara's… different."

"She always has been." Stated without rancor. It was simply fact.

"And she's not you." He copied her gesture, his fingertips tracing the line of her jaw and down her throat where they paused, resting right over where her pulse beat strong, if a little fast. "It may have taken me longer to trust you fully," he said, acknowledging that yes, they'd come a long way. "But you've also never broken what trust I had in you. And now—"

A deep sigh shuddered through him, prompting Karen to wind her arms around him and hold him close.

And now his trust was absolute. Hew knew he could risk angering her to make a point because he _knew_ at the end of the day she would still be there. And she would still love him.

It didn't really matter he'd never understand that she considered it a most rare and precious gift. It was enough she had it. And she'd do anything in her power to protect it.

She pulled the sheet over them settled herself more comfortably against his chest. "I wonder why O'Hara was so obviously aggravated with Spencer today," she mused, thinking back to the debacle of that afternoon.

"Other than the fact he was being a grandstanding asshat and stealing your well-earned thunder?"

Karen smiled and patted his chest soothingly. "That's what irritated us, sweetheart."

"How about he was a grandstanding asshat who stole the entire department's well-earned thunder while simultaneously making us look like idiots for working with him?" His legs shifted restlessly beneath the sheet—a sure sign of his agitation.

"I suspect that's closer, but somehow, doubt that's the whole story." She stared up at the ceiling, thinking. "You still have no idea why they broke up?"

Mere weeks after moving in together. It would have been easy to assume that continued exposure 24/7 to Spencer with no physical room to escape had finally brought O'Hara to her senses, but Karen knew it couldn't possibly be that simple. After all, it rarely was, and that was when dealing with ordinary humans. Considering nothing about Shawn Spencer was ordinary, including the evolution of his relationship with Juliet?

No… she wasn't buying that it was anything as easy as discovering their living styles were incompatible. Her cop sense wouldn't let her. More importantly, her woman's sense wouldn't let her.

"Not a clue." Carlton's long fingers played through her hair, the light touches to her scalp and neck making her shiver. "And frankly, unless it affects her performance in the field, I don't care to dwell on it." His chest rose and fell beneath her cheek with his deep breath. "Spencer's antics have consumed too damned much of the last eight years, Karen. I'm tired of dealing with him and thinking about him and if that means I have to set aside my concern for O'Hara then, so be it. If the time comes she wants to talk, I'll be there for her—I'll always be there for her—but until then, I'm putting myself first."

Karen's breath caught at the edge imbuing Carlton's words. There was more to what he was saying than a simple declaration of independence.

"It bothered the hell out of me, Karen—seeing your face when he threw that plaque at you. It's a symbol of your efforts and your accomplishments and he tossed it at you like it was so much trash. Like what you do and who you are doesn't matter because you're merely a supporting player, there only to provide a foil for his drama."

"Carlton—"

"You're no one's supporting player," he all but growled, his body tensing with each word.

"I know that, honey," she soothed, "It was annoying—" And she'd made a rare error, allowing her annoyance to show so plainly, forgetting how intensely Carlton would take a perceived slight to her. "It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter."

"Damn straight he doesn't matter, but you're wrong. What happened today matters. I will not stand for anyone holding you in anything but the highest regard."

A fist grabbed hold of her heart and squeezed more emotion out of it than she'd ever experienced other than at the exact moment of Iris' birth. He'd been there, too. Witness and protector—everything he was in this moment.

"Marry me."

He froze, open-mouthed, the already high color streaking his cheekbones rising further, the red stark against the sudden paleness of the rest of his skin.

She gazed down at him, not entirely certain when she'd moved to sit up, not really wanting to feel as if she were looming, but desperately needing to see his face. His dear, worn, handsome face, with those eyes—normally as slumbrous and watchful as those of a Siamese cat's—staring at her, wide and startlingly blue. . Tugging on his hands, she pulled him upright, resting their joined hands on her thighs.

"Obviously, it doesn't have to be right away, although if that's what you wanted, I'd be filling out the license faster than Spencer can down a plate of nachos, but at the very least, I want to know that it will happen. I want you to know that I _want_ it to happen and you already know, thanks to Iris' less-than-subtle hints, that she wants it to happen, so really, I see no reason it shouldn't happen, unless, oh God, there's some reason you don't want it to happen and—"

The flood of words came to a sudden and not-at-all-unpleasurable halt as Carlton smothered her mouth with his, his tongue demanding immediate entry as he hauled her into his lap. As deliberate and controlled as he'd been during their lovemaking, was how unrestrained he now was, his passion near overwhelming in its ferocity, yet never so much that Karen felt anything other than completely safe and equally fierce.

She fell back to the mattress and welcomed him into her body in a single motion. Their bodies battered each other as they reached and strained, one of his hands fisted in her hair as hers grasped his shoulders, his hiss as her nails dug in fueling her desire to take more. To give him everything.

As quickly as he'd pounced, it was over, the two of them clinging to each other, gasping, Karen wincing slightly as she shifted and felt her muscles protesting.

Carlton shoved a shaking hand through his hair, his eyes widening as he took notice of her discomfort.

"God, baby—I'm sorry. I was too damned rough. You just caught me by surprise and—"

It was Karen's turn to silence him with a kiss, her mouth gently coaxing him to relax. "You weren't too rough," she murmured against his mouth. "Not unless I was, too." She waited for the subtle shake of his head before drawing back, smoothing a fingertip between his brows, relaxing their tense line.

"I know you felt how much I loved it."

The edges of his mouth twitched briefly, his very male ego reasserting itself in the deep blue of his gaze. "But are you going to love the aftermath?"

"I'm sure you have methods for soothing all my aches."

In a flash, he'd shifted to lie more fully over her, his hands holding hers firmly beside her head, the alpha male on full display until he spoke. "I will take all the time in the world to see to your every need."

Karen smiled, relishing every touch, every breath, every soft word uttered by the man who lay over her not so much as conqueror but as equal. Partner.

"So," she drawled, "that's a yes?"

He lowered his head and kissed her. Soft and strong and everything she'd come to love about him encompassed in one simple caress.

"Yes."

* * *

**AN:** I'm not entirely certain if this is the end of this story. I think I'm going to play it a bit by ear, depending on the last ep of the season, before I decide whether or not to call this one done. If it so happens this is the end, I do hope I've at least left it in a satisfying place.


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

**AN: **Yeah, you know, we're going to just pretend that finale never happened. Or, perhaps even the entire latter half of the season. Thank goodness for fanfic.

* * *

She lifted her head into the breeze blowing in off the nearby ocean. Light and fragrant with salt, it was just cool enough to render the early autumn sun comfortable. Good thing, too, because she had been bound and determined to wear this dress today. High neck skimming her collarbones, long-sleeves tight to the wrist, and skirt just sweeping the floor, it was the absolute picture of modesty until she moved, revealing the thigh-high slit up one side of the skirt.

He had a fondness for her legs, she knew.

Then there was its near backless state.

He had a _particular_ fondness for her bare back.

While _she_ claimed a particular fondness for the shade of the gown. Fashioned from layers of deep slate blue silk chiffon with scattered silvery beadwork catching the light, once she'd spied it on the rack, no other dress had ever stood a chance.

That the color reminded her of his eyes in all their many moods and served as the primary reason she'd chosen the gown would never occur to him. And would, in fact, embarrass him. Which would make her love him that much more, although how that was even possible, she didn't know.

As the unmistakable strains of the classic "At Last" drifted back to her, she grinned. While they'd made all other arrangements together, he'd requested she grant him absolute authority over this one thing: the song to which she'd walk to meet him. When she argued how would she know it was time for her to make her way to him if she didn't even know what song to listen for, he'd grinned, that wide, cocky, irresistibly Irish grin, and said she'd know.

Then the unexpected male voice launched into the familiar lyrics and she sighed. Yeah… she knew.

Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders, tightened fingers that trembled only a little around the bouquet she held in one hand, took Iris' hand with her other, and proceeded to take the first steps into her new life. As she rounded the corner of the building and came into full view of the assembled guests she heard a collective gasp while at the same time, she felt her own breath catch.

He stood, waiting, at the end of the autumn leaf-strewn aisle, waiting for her, the expression on his face that familiar combination of pride, love, confidence, and terror that always made her heart beat a little faster. But what had made her breath catch and her step falter for the briefest instant was what he wore—the only other thing over which he'd requested absolute authority and secrecy.

Karen had been half afraid he'd want to prank her by wearing some ridiculous getup, like a baby blue ruffled shirt or solid white tails, but in her sane mind, she knew better. Ultimately, she dismissed the silly fears as a result of nerves and too many years of dealing with Shawn Spencer.

Honestly, though—she _should_ have known. While he was a faithful disciple to the dark, well-cut suit and she had no doubt he would look devastatingly handsome in black tie, what _else_ would he possibly choose to he wear to their wedding?

He stepped forward, meeting her halfway down the aisle as if anxious to get _on_ with it, already. As he swept a delighted Iris up into his arms, Karen smiled up at him, her fingertips drifting over the immaculate blue wool. She traced the citation bars and the gold double-looped cord and the lapel pins, all evidence of his rank and level of excellence at the job that defined him before finally tracing each of those shining silver buttons, polished to a brilliant shine that gleamed in the mellow, late-afternoon sun bathing them in warmth.

"If you'd asked me, back then," she said quietly, "I would have sworn I didn't want to see you wearing your dress blues any time soon. Or ever." Her hand rose to the uniform's collar, the tips of her fingers easing beneath the edge, straightening it with purpose and gentle care.

"It might not be the last time I ever wear them," he said just as quietly, the light in his eyes dimming, but only slightly.

"I know." Her heart beat a little faster as she reached down and took his hand, feeling it tremble much like hers had moments earlier. "But it will _always_ be the most important."


End file.
